The plane continued to sink.
The closer Faith got to the former galley, the more the floor sagged. Broken electrical wires hung from the ceiling, buzzing and arcing as they whipped around. She couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She filled her lungs with the thin cabin air. It was icy cold, but breathable. They’d lost a hell of a lot of altitude. Thank God the Russian countryside was flat. She hoped it was flat enough.
Frosty pulled the fire bottle for the number-three engine for the second time as he listened in on the first officer’s exchange with the ground.
“Moscow Centre, this is Clipper ten-seventy-two; we are declaring an emergency,” First Officer Jackson said.
“Here is Moscow Centre. Is that Clipper ten-seventeen on emergency?” the controller said with a heavy Russian accent.
“Clipper ten-seventy-two, ten-seven-two, declaring an emergency.”
“Moscow Centre, Clipper ten-seventy-two, on emergency.”
“Moscow Centre, Clipper ten-seventy-two, descending out of-” Jackson ran his finger down the metric conversion chart “-seven-five hundred meters for… four-two hundred meters. Request clearance to nearest airport.”
The controller struggled with the foreign words. “Clipper ten-seventy-two, this is Moscow Centre. Negative on request. Nearest airport is with military restriction. Proceed to Sheremetyevo.”
“Moscow Centre, Clipper ten-seventy-two, we’re experiencing emergency depressurization and failure on number-three engine. Repeat request for emergency clearance to nearest airfield.”
“Clipper ten-seventy-two, here is Moscow Centre. Repeat. Negative on request. Negative on request.”
“Captain,” Jackson said.
Ian visibly struggled with the sluggish controls. “I copied. Distance to Sheremetyevo?”
“One hundred eight nautical miles,” Frosty said. “Real neighborly folks, those Rooskies.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
WEST BERLIN, AMERICAN SECTOR
The Papagei Pub catering to GIs was packed with its usual crowd of servicemen, their German girlfriends and young working-class Berliners looking for American dates. The men at the bar watched a time-delayed broadcast of a baseball game on the Armed Forces Network. Each time a loud cheer shook the room, the mascot macaw perched at the end of the bar squawked, “Touchdown! Touchdown!” The bird then settled back into its routine of plucking out the feathers around its mangy neck.
The blues, pinks and greens of the blinking neon parrot in the pub’s window reflected on Summer’s face. Socializing with his old Army classmates from the joint-services Explosive Ordnance Disposal School was fun, but hardly distracted him from the nagging sense that he should have stopped Faith-even if her fury had meant the end of their friendship. He absentmindedly lifted his beer with his buddies in a toast to younger days and sipped the pilsner through the foam head.
Captain Leroy Walters reached for a handful of popcorn and threw a kernel into his mouth. “Man, I don’t know what’s with the Germans, why they don’t have good finger food. You’d think any people who know how to make beer this good would’ve come up with something to snack on while you’re drinking it. You know, this place only started serving popcorn a couple of months ago.”
“That right?” Summer said automatically.
“Come on, Summer, you ready to tell us now what you’re doing, coming all the way over here on a moment’s notice?”
“I told you, I was on a rescue mission for a damsel in distress.” He picked up a stack of cardboard beer coasters advertising Warsteiner Pilsner and shuffled them. He didn’t like the feeling lodged in his gut: Faith was in trouble.
“I’m sure you did the right thing.”
“She never would let me do that.” He dropped the coasters one by one from one hand into the other. He should’ve stopped her this morning, but she was so damn headstrong.
“What kind of trouble she in? You can get into a lot of trouble in this city.”
“The kind you don’t want to know about.”
“Well, that narrows it down to female troubles or problems with the communists.”
Summer stared at the neon bird.
“Oh, shit, man. You gotta be real careful in this town. You know, I used to use that same Turkish car mechanic-der Meister, we called him. He was the one they busted for helping that guy with the 513th carry all those documents to East Berlin.”
“You don’t say?” Summer said. His thoughts were eight hundred miles east.
“Yeah, I used to take Francine’s Pontiac into his shop. All the guys used der Meister. He could fix anything. The nicest guy you’d ever meet. No one could believe he was a spy. They say he took microfilm to East Berlin through a hole in the fence the KGB showed him. You know, we do get them coming over here, taking pictures of what we’re doing. You can always spot ’em. It’s always one or two little guys in cheap suits. They pretend to walk dogs by you and they’d be taking your picture all the while. They won’t use the same guy twice because we’d be too suspicious, but they never thought to change the damn dog! I tell you, I can spot a KGB agent every time.” He turned his head toward a tall woman walking by. She had closely cropped dark curls that reminded him of an old girlfriend. She slowed her pace as she neared the pub. “Oh, she’s nice looking. Out for a night on the town. You boys might have to excuse me.”
The men turned their heads and watched the sexy woman pass the window. She wore the ugliest brooch Summer had ever seen. She glanced at him and then looked away.
“Her step’s too deliberate,” Summer said. “You might always be able to spot a KGB agent, but I can always tell when a lady is too complicated to mess with. That woman has a mind of her own. Trust me, you don’t want to get involved with that one.”
“Sounds like she reminds you of someone. Your damsel in distress, maybe?” Meriwether finally spoke.
The woman entered the pub and stood near the doorway, surveying the room. When her gaze fell upon their table, Walters smiled at her and motioned for her to join them.
“Control yourself, Leroy,” Summer said. “Don’t let your dick go busting up our reunion.”
“She looks like she’s looking for someone, and maybe I’m her man.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, guys,” she said in an American accent. “But I’m checking out all the military hangouts for a friend of a friend. I know this sounds pretty weird, but it’s real important for my friend Faith that I find him.”
Summer jerked his head up and stopped playing with the coasters. “You know Faith? Faith Whitney?”
“Yeah. I’m trying to find a guy named Max Summer.”
“She all right? What’s happened to her?”
“You’re Max? Thank God I found you. She got word to Hakan she needs you as soon as possible. He’s out looking for you, too.”
“She say anything else?”
“It didn’t mean much to us, but she said it has something to do with a package you helped her with.”
“Where is she?”
“Do you know Berlin?” the woman said.
“Barely.”
“I do,” Meriwether said.
“At an apartment in Steglitz. I can take you to her.”
“Let’s go.” Summer stood, reaching for his wallet.
“I got it, man.” Walters threw a blue hundred-mark bill onto the table.
“By the way, I’m Kathy,” she said as they left the bar. Kathy raised her arm in the air to hail a taxi. A tan Mercedes taxi turned its lights on and pulled up to the curb.
“You don’t need a cab,” Leroy said. “We can drive you wherever you need to go. I’ve got my wife’s Pontiac tonight. We can all pile in the cruiser.” He pointed at a blue Grand LeMans with Virginia license plates.